


Empty Husks And Fragile Hopes

by sychononny



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Caregiving, Depression, Gen, Gen Work, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Infantilism, Non-sexual, Platonic Cuddling, Reminiscing, assisted feeding, diapers and urine (mentioned - nonsexual), stupor, supernatural illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-18
Updated: 2014-07-18
Packaged: 2018-02-09 09:17:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1977390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sychononny/pseuds/sychononny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Sam's not sure when he's ever seen his brother lie so still. All his life, Dean's been restless, prone to action - sometimes even without thinking. That's the Dean he knows. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>But Dean hasn't shifted to get comfortable since Sam set him down on the bed: his hand still caught awkwardly half-under him... </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Husks And Fragile Hopes

**Author's Note:**

> Sam & Dean - gen!fic. hurt/comfort, stupor and supernatural illness, non-sexual infantilism, caregiving, diapers and urine (mentioned, nonsexual), bathing, grief, depression, cuddling, reminiscing, assisted feeding, etc.
> 
> Written for Skeletncloset, because she's awesome. And also because she implanted the idea of catatonic!Dean in my head and Sam taking care of him, and this is what resulted when my muse got done playing with it. It's not catatonia, but it's similar.

****************************************************

 

When Sam finds him, he ignores the blood, the bruises. Because they've been there before, countless times. Dean's alive and everything else they can fix.

"Dean!" 

Sam doesn't wait for a response, leaping over the last soul-feeder's corpse. It's when he's hugging Dean's unresisting body and there's no sign of even a sarcastic protest - that's the moment when Sam knows something is wrong. It forms like dread in the pit of his stomach, spreading outward like a fast-growing plant, making his hands shake just a little bit as he pulls back enough to really get a good look at him. He has to turn Dean's head to get him to meet Sam's eyes, but it's unsettling the way his head stays exactly where Sam leaves it, perched at an angle with his eyes still sightlessly aimed over Sammy's shoulder. 

"Dean? C'mon, we've got to get out of here," Sammy pleads, expecting that any second Dean'll just snap out of it - becoming normal, sarcastic, protective. Maybe grunting out a complaint about what took Sammy so long. 

Dean slowly blinks but doesn't move. 

It's with great difficulty that Sam ends up carrying him out of there. Bridal style, because no matter how much he tried, he couldn't get Dean to take a single step on his own. 

By the time they reach the impala, Sam's out of breath, his shoulders screaming, but he still manages to lay Dean down safely into the back seat. He only knocks Dean's head once against something, and he tries to believe that when Dean didn't make any noise it meant that it wasn't actually very hard. 

Climbing into the driver's seat while Dean's sleeping in the backseat feels more wrong than anything else. Dean would never let Sam drive his Baby without a warning to drive careful or taking the keys himself. Sammy hesitates after he starts the motor, waiting for a rebuke, a murmur, something that is so Dean-like that it's nearly inevitable. 

The backseat remains silent; Sam speeds the entire way back to the motel. 

When he gets there, he ignores the burning strain in his arms as he carries Dean inside and sets him on the nearest bed. He gets the med kit, locks the car and the motel door. But the unnatural stillness in the motel room when he returns stands his hair on end. 

Dean's just laying there. 

Sam's not sure when he's ever seen his brother lie so still. All his life, Dean's been restless, prone to action - sometimes even without thinking. Hell, he even moves in his sleep - twisting himself into uncomfortable looking positions that eventually push the covers onto the floor. That's the Dean he knows. 

But Dean hasn't even shifted to get comfortable since Sam set him down on the bed: his hand still caught awkwardly half-under him and his legs still bent up as if Sam's arm is still under them and propping them up. 

"Dean," Sam drops the med kit onto the bed maybe a little bit harder than necessary. And maybe that's on purpose, because he's still secretly hoping something will snap Dean out of it. That any second, Dean'll give him a lopsided grin. And Sam'll have to spend the next however-long-it-takes trying to keep Dean from overdoing until he's fully recovered - just like that time in Omaha where Dad had to cuff Dean to the bed because he kept pulling out his stitches doing everything except resting. 

The first thing Sam checks for is a pulse. It's there and it's faint, but it would be so much worse if it wasn't there at all. Dean blinks, and for the first time that sign of life doesn't feel comforting at all.

Dean's head doesn't have any lumps. But it does have a weird shaped bruise behind his ear, the skin is almost purple with it. It's with dread that he recognises it from the half translated descriptions in Latin. It's a feed mark. The legends in his research had said the soul-feeders "removed the souls of those taken". He'd thought it was just a metaphor for death, and when he'd seen Dean was alive he’d just assumed they hadn't touched him yet. But the legends didn't say anything about what happened if a feeding was interrupted partway. What happened to those who were left with only pieces of their soul left. 

Dean's stillness took on a creepy edge. 

Bobby's been the third speed-dial on Sam's phone since high-school, and on every phone since. He hasn't actually used it in years, and his hands fumble at the keys. If his voice shakes a bit, neither of them acknowledge it. But of all of the knowledge Bobby's acquired in his vast network, no one knows how to bring Dean back to them.

"I'll keep diggin'. In the meantime, keep him safe."

Sam nods even though Bobby can't see him do it. On the bed, Dean's chest rises by increments so small you could miss it, making Sam's heart stutter in his chest when sometimes he could swear it wasn't moving at all. 

"Oh, and Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam studies Dean's placid features, barely listening.

"Get some sleep. You sound like shit," Bobby sounds concerned and bossy. Sam hangs up without comment, taking Dean's hand and sitting next to him until the sun comes up.

*********

Sammy's not sure why he starts talking. Maybe it's to fill the silence; maybe it's a desperate hope that he can somehow help Dean recover the missing bits if he tells him about everything they've ever shared together. Like if he helps Dean replace the lost data, it will allow Dean to wake up. He doesn't know if it's true or if it's even possible. He doesn't tell Bobby because it's such a desperate strand of hope that he doesn't think it will survive being said out loud. So he keeps it to himself, tucking it deep inside where it's protected and safe. He just needs to believe that Dean's still somewhere in there. 

So he prattles on about the time they hunted down a windigo for the first time without Dad. Sam had forgotten to bring the salt from the car to burn it afterward. It'd been a shitty windy night, and the hike back to the car had sucked. But it's the first story that pops in his head and he keeps talking because he's afraid that if he lets it, the silence will somehow find a way to take Dean away from him forever. 

*********

The first time Dean has an accident, acrid wetness spreading through his jeans and soaking into the bed under him. Something about that shakes a part deep inside of Sam loose. He winds up sobbing, his head buried in Dean's chest, listening to his heartbeat as he cries. He doesn't mind the scent of stale sweat captured in his brother's clothes: Dean still smells like comfort and home and safety. It feels like something's breaking to realise that Dean won't be able to provide any of those things for awhile, maybe never again. It feels like he's losing his brother even as he listens to him breathe and it's the worst thing Sam's ever experienced. 

Sam stays like that until the scent of drying urine propels him to go out and get supplies. He can't help apologising when he returns with the pack of adult diapers. 

He cleans Dean up with a washcloth, shamefaced and uncomfortable like he shouldn't be touching Dean there. 

It's the first time Sam is grateful Dean's so unaware of what's happening to him. He doesn't think he could deal with seeing the humiliation that would be in Dean's eyes. It'd feel like a betrayal. 

*********

Dean swallows reflexively anything Sam puts in his mouth. But he doesn't chew, doesn't respond, doesn't complain or say when something tastes like baby food. 

Sam buys things like yogurt and applesauce and cream soups. The irony is that Dean is eating better than he usually did. It doesn't feel like a victory. 

Feeding Dean like this brings back unbidden memories of when Dean used to feed him tomato soup out of a can, one of dad's old shirts being used as a bib while Sam kept spitting out the spaghettios and throwing them back at Dean. He'd thought it was funny, and hadn't understood why it made Dean so upset... 

Wiping some applesauce from Dean's chin, Sam's voice kinda chokes up on the end of the story. He never does tell the end of it. Judging by Dean's unwavering slow blinking, his brother doesn't even notice. 

That night, Sam sleeps next to Dean on the bed. 

He dreams that Dean's been kidnapped by a dark goo that covers his mouth every time he tries to speak. Then the goo turns into a soul-feeder, and it's Sam who can't move as Dean slowly gets smaller and smaller and then disappears altogether. He can hear Dean screaming but when Sam sits up, it's his own voice that's rough and hoarse. Dean just lays there, still and silent next to him. 

It's a long time before he can sleep again. 

*********

It's a week before Dean's unwashed body is more than Sam can ignore. 

It feels like a turning moment that can't be taken back. Like he's admitting Dean's not just about to wake up on his own any minute now. And that loss is something Sam has to work up to. 

He works slowly, trying not to touch the skin he bares as he peels back layer after layer of filthy clothes. He winces sympathetically at the cold linoleum that Dean accepts passively. 

Dean looks so vulnerable just laying there. It makes Sam handle him more gently than normal. Dean would never have stood for being treated so fragile, but so much is different now. 

Bathing him is unexpectedly challenging. Sam tries a lot of different positions before he finally climbs in, his pants getting soaked clear through as he holds Dean's head in his lap above the shallow waterline. 

As he washes Dean down, he tries not to think about all the places his fingers have touched. Even if Dean were conscious, this would be one of those things they'd never talk about. 

It's only when he has Dean toweled off and dry, wrestled into fresh clothes and tucked into bed, that it finally occurs to Sam how often Dean must have been the one to bathe Sam when he was still too young to remember it. That knowledge eases the guilt somewhat but also intensifies a vibrant ache that's starting in his heart.

*********

Sam hasn't hunted in four months, and hasn't thought about it in three. Instead he sits in a crappy motel room at the side of an interstate, Dean carefully propped up with pillows beside him. He's reading out loud to Dean from Dad's journal. It's become like a bedtime story, with Sam holding the book and interspersing what's written with reminisces about their own experiences. Sam turns the pages, and gestures with his hands. Dean might be listening or he might not even know Sam's there. 

Sam keeps himself talking so that he doesn't have to wonder. As Sam talks, Dean's chapped lips glisten because sometimes his tongue darts out to lick them. And when Sam gestures emphatically enough to drop the book, Dean's eyes flick down to follow the movement. 

Sam misses it, cursing, his laugh sounding strangled in the stale motel room. By the time he's flipped back to the same page, Dean's already retreated back inside his mind, his eyes staring and empty. 

Sam reaches over to brush the hair out of Dean's eyes. It's uncharacteristically long now and secretly Sam thinks it gives Dean a softer look. He'll cut it soon, because Dean would want that. 

But for now he waits for Dean to blink before starting back up, finishing the story about the time Sam built a rock-salt launcher for a school project. Dean had made him change it to a catapult at the last minute because he said no one would have understood why rock salt was so important. Dean was always looking out for him, had always been there. Sam was determined to return that favor now: he'll be there for Dean for as long he needs him to be. 

*********

Sam strips for their bath, no longer self-conscious. He sings to Dean as he suds up his hair, his voice off-kilter and stumbling as he works through the opening bars of 'Ramble On'. He doesn't do Led Zeppelin any justice, but Dean doesn't seem to mind. 

It's around the third chorus when Dean's lips move, silently mouthing something that Sam can't catch from upside down. It's startling and fleeting. Sam isn't sure if he imagined it. It's been a long time since he's gone out and held a normal conversation. Real or imagined, the moment is gone and Sam finishes the bath in silence. 

Spooning up against Dean for the night because he thinks the skin contact is good for Dean, but mostly it's companionship for Sam. Because even when he's holding Dean against his chest, he still misses his older brother so much that it aches right down to his bones.

*********

He's rubbing chap-stick on Dean's lips when Dean makes a noise. It's a grunt, but it still makes Sammy freeze mid stroke. Dean's eyes stare back at him more intensely than usual, but after five minutes it's clear Dean's not going to say anything more just yet. 

Sam babbles on about how they ran out of carmex so he bought this cherry stuff, but if Dean doesn't like it they can use something else. As he talks Dean's eyes drift and dim again, the moment gone before Sam can finish rambling about nothing. 

After that he keeps both kinds on hand, but Dean doesn't seem to have any preference or give any sign he's in there. Sam keeps trying but by the week's end he finds himself crying, curled up on the bathroom floor. 

He's sure he's simply losing his mind. 

**********************************

The first thing Dean knows is sound. There's a voice singing off-key. And even though he's sure he should know the song, it's the voice that's singing it which really grabs his attention. 

It takes him three tries, but his lips finally part, clumsily shaping a word he only half remembers. He's gone again, sucked back into a corner of his mind by the time Sam's fingers touch his face, trailing wetness across his forehead and trying desperately to call him back again. 

* *

The next time the darkness parts, Dean's laying on his side, thick arms pulling him close. For the first time in known memory he feels good, safe. He's sure it wasn't always like that, but he doesn't remember anything distinct. It's gone again before he can chase it, slipping back down while his mind locks up tight, shutting everything out again.

**

 _Sammy_ , for the first time in forever Dean knows something and it stands out sharp and clear in his mind. The man - hazel eyes and too-long hair - smears something against Dean's lips, his face a mask of concentration. The sensation of something touching his mouth reminds Dean that it's even there. The rest of his body feels detached and numb, and when he tries his throat won't cooperate at all. He doesn't remember it being this hard to talk. He watches Sammy freeze and meet his eyes. When Sammy talks it's about someone named Cherry, and Dean's trying to follow it but his grasp on everything slides sideways. 

**

There's crying, an agonising and miserable sound. Dean wants to move towards it. _Sammy_ , his mind says, _gotta take care of Sammy_. But his hand won't move past the edge of the bed and he exhausts himself trying. He's still trying when he stutters and loses track again. 

**

Things are starting to filter in, in bits and fragments: something smooth and sweet on his tongue... Sam's hands in his hair making his scalp tingle... snoring in his ear... crying sometimes in the dark... strong hands lifting him up... clothes on his skin - sometimes coming off and sometimes being tugged back over him. Water - tub. Sweetness - food. Hands - Sammy. Crying - something important he can't quite remember. But he tries. He tries a lot, and slowly he starts putting pieces together. 

A lot of times when he becomes aware of things, Sam's talking. Some things he says feel familiar but there's no memory to go with them. Occasionally, something actually makes sense. 

Words like _Dad_ and Dean can smell an aftershave, feel the barrel of the first gun in his hands, and a deep voice that he can feel more than hear saying words he can't quite remember. _Hunt_ \- flashes of fear, things with claws, loading shotguns and Sammy saying he doesn't want to hunt anymore. _Sammy_ \- a baby, a small child, the man who brushes his hair back and now smiles in a way that doesn't quite meet his eyes. 

Dean's hand twitches on the bed, fingers uncooperative like they're no longer sure about how to take orders. He wants to reassure, to touch, to reacquaint. But Sammy keeps talking, doesn't notice. And Dean slides back under before he can get his hand to move again.

********************************

Sam's spacing out, eyes unfocused, when something touches his face. A finger jabs his cheek before he he even registers the uncoordinated grab. Dean's hand falls to the bedspread, unreturned. But when Sam looks over, green eyes meet his and he can swear he can see his brother reflected in them. 

When Sam smiles, it's watery. Dean's eyes return his questioning gaze with a clearness and determination that usually accompanies his fleeting moments. 

Sam waits in silence for the green in them to dim like they always do. 

But the minutes tick by, and Dean's gaze holds his with no change. It's bright green and fully aware. As they watch each other, Sam starts to feel it build, thrumming in his chest like an excited hummingbird. It's faint. But for the first time since he discovered the feeder's mark behind Dean's ear, Sam actually feels like there's any real reason to hope. 

**

 

~ Fin ~


End file.
